• If Gasper and his group prevail. √
• If Gasper and his group perish.

Quote:

Gasper and his team jump into the melee from behind the torchbearers. The torchbearers turn out to be exceptionally well trained fighters. They defend themselves with a mixture of karate and street fighting that is potentially deadly. Luckily for Gasper, however, several of the torchbearers fall before they can put their skills to good use, and he prevails.

"What was that all about?" Gasper asks one of the field defenders.

A stocky man with a square jaw steps out of the group.

"They were Walkers, if it's anything to you."

"Why were they burning your crops?" Gasper asks.

"Because they were Walkers," the man responds testily. "You'd best be moving on, Wheeler."

• Gasper tries to capture the man and interrogate him.
• Gasper searches the area, hoping to find someone a little more helpful.

_________________"Now that we've determined that up to π angels can dance on the head of a pin, how do we determine the specific number (or fraction) of angels dancing?"
"What if angels from another pin engage them in melee combat?"

If we interrogate him he'll probably speak in more riddles. So let's leave and hope to find someone less cryptic._________________-The Reverend Sir Professor Darth Rabbitt

Click here to see the hidden message (It might contain spoilers)

OgreBattle wrote:

The Den is about the equivalent of an S&M fetish. The Den's favorite way of jerking it is to have hurr durr arguments that run on for dozens of pages. Some of it raise interesting points, but most of it is just slinging cum on the walls. Like strangulation to get an erection, being a huge [EDITED] gets you off even stronger. Occasionally Frank struts out in intimidating 12" stiletto thigh highs, a thick, fearsome whip (which is a situational weapon choice, by the way) taut in his firm grip, and you put on your gimp suits, anticipating the lashing of his sharp tongue with a perverse quiver.

FrankTrollman wrote:

Victorian Racism is like level 2 evolved racism. You have to get your racism up to a certain level and then trade it while holding a dark stone to get your racism to turn into Victorian Racism.

"The heck with that fellow," Gasper says. "If there's a field here, there must be a village somewhere nearby. Let's search the area."

Gasper leads the way around the perimeter of the field but finds no sign of habitation of any sort. Next, he scours the horizon for a road, a tower, or anything.

"Where do they live?" he asks. Nobody has an answer.

A moment later, Gasper notices a plume of dust on the horizon. It seems to be created by a vehicle moving fairly quickly.

"Well, now," Gasper says, "that seems to indicate some sort of advanced travel method—which means civilization of a higher form. But is it friendly? Nobody else has been. Maybe we'd better run back to that copse of trees and hide."

• Gasper orders his group to hide.
• They go to meet the plume of dust.

_________________"Now that we've determined that up to π angels can dance on the head of a pin, how do we determine the specific number (or fraction) of angels dancing?"
"What if angels from another pin engage them in melee combat?"

Meet the plume of dust. I think we've just found the intestalien._________________-The Reverend Sir Professor Darth Rabbitt

Click here to see the hidden message (It might contain spoilers)

OgreBattle wrote:

The Den is about the equivalent of an S&M fetish. The Den's favorite way of jerking it is to have hurr durr arguments that run on for dozens of pages. Some of it raise interesting points, but most of it is just slinging cum on the walls. Like strangulation to get an erection, being a huge [EDITED] gets you off even stronger. Occasionally Frank struts out in intimidating 12" stiletto thigh highs, a thick, fearsome whip (which is a situational weapon choice, by the way) taut in his firm grip, and you put on your gimp suits, anticipating the lashing of his sharp tongue with a perverse quiver.

FrankTrollman wrote:

Victorian Racism is like level 2 evolved racism. You have to get your racism up to a certain level and then trade it while holding a dark stone to get your racism to turn into Victorian Racism.

Gasper decides to meet the dust plume. He turns his air-car in its direction and travels at full throttle for three minutes. As he approaches, he sees that the dust plume is caused by a single military air-car. Two men wearing the uniforms of Lord Banshire's marines ride in the front seats.

As the air-car slows, one rider trains the car's machine guns on Gasper's vehicle. The other stands and addresses Gasper. "Are you from the starship Saretta?"

Gasper studies the officer, then slowly says, "Yes. It crash-landed, and we're stranded."

"What are its coordinates?" the officer demands.

Gasper hesitates. This is not exactly the type of greeting he had expected.

"If you don't give me the coordinates, I shall order the sergeant here to open fire," the officer threatens.

• Gasper gives the coordinates to the officer.
• Gasper fights the two men.

_________________"Now that we've determined that up to π angels can dance on the head of a pin, how do we determine the specific number (or fraction) of angels dancing?"
"What if angels from another pin engage them in melee combat?"

Give the coordinates to the strange men. Gasper's been doing too much fighting as is._________________-The Reverend Sir Professor Darth Rabbitt

Click here to see the hidden message (It might contain spoilers)

OgreBattle wrote:

The Den is about the equivalent of an S&M fetish. The Den's favorite way of jerking it is to have hurr durr arguments that run on for dozens of pages. Some of it raise interesting points, but most of it is just slinging cum on the walls. Like strangulation to get an erection, being a huge [EDITED] gets you off even stronger. Occasionally Frank struts out in intimidating 12" stiletto thigh highs, a thick, fearsome whip (which is a situational weapon choice, by the way) taut in his firm grip, and you put on your gimp suits, anticipating the lashing of his sharp tongue with a perverse quiver.

FrankTrollman wrote:

Victorian Racism is like level 2 evolved racism. You have to get your racism up to a certain level and then trade it while holding a dark stone to get your racism to turn into Victorian Racism.

Gasper tells the officer where to find the Saretta. The officer relays the information to somebody over his air-car radio, then says, "Lead the way, colonist."

Gasper turns his vehicle back toward the Saretta. Periodically throughout the journey, more air-cars join them until a group of twenty vehicles carrying forty men follows Gasper.

An hour away from the Saretta, two hovertanks join the caravan. Gasper drops back and pulls up beside the officer.

"What do you want?" the officer calls.

"Why the hovertanks?" Gasper asks.

The officer grins. "In case of trouble," he answers. The officer will say nothing more on the matter.

When they reach the coordinates, Gasper is astonished to find only a group of milling colonists. The Saretta is gone!

The officer pulls up beside Gasper. "Where is it?" he demands.

Gasper studies the horizon in bewilderment. "I-I don't..."

The officer issues a command and the air-cars encircle the colonists. The hovertanks depress their guns so that they can fire directly into the midst of the camp.

Tita rushes toward Gasper. "Thank goodness you're here!" she says.

"What happened to the Saretta?" the officer demands.

She studies him with cool contempt. "It disappeared in the night," she answers testily. "I thought we had escaped Banshire's rabble," she adds, glaring menacingly at the young man.

The officer ignores her insult. "A starship does not just disappear quietly into the night. What did you do with it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Tita spits. "How could we pilot a starship?"

The officer steps back. "Until we find the Saretta, you're all under arrest." He quickly retreats to the safety of a hovertank.

Once they are alone, Tita fills Gasper in on the rest of the story. "There was some trouble. The captain got stingy with the food. Some of the people tried to charge the ship and the crew sealed itself inside. In the morning, it was gone. No thunder, no lightning, no earthquakes. It just disappeared."

A murmur of astonishment circulates through the nearby crowd. "She's the one they're after!" cries a woman. "Let's give her up and get ourselves rescued!" A chorus of agreement runs through the crowd, and a few people tentatively move in Tita's direction.

"Please!" she screams. "Let me finish! Then you can turn me over to Banshire's apes, if you still want to."

Taylor and Gasper step between Tita and the crowd, pushing the mote aggressive people away. "Let her finish!" Gasper orders.

The murmur dies and Tita continues. "The Saretta wasn't a colonist ship."

"Then what are we, canned sardines?" calls a man near the rear of the crowd.

Tita ignores the man and continues. "Banshire and his ancestors have known about Omega for at least a hundred years. They've been bleeding it dry to maintain their position back on Terra. About ten years ago, a group of rebels discovered the planet and blackmailed Banshire into opening the planet to colonization. He had no choice but to agree, but he's not a good loser.

"He's determined to destroy the government of Omega and take it over himself. To that end, he's been smuggling marines to the planet aboard merchant ships for several years. But he hasn't been able to equip them yet. That's where the Saretta fits in. Banshire hid eight hovertanks and enough small arms to equip a battalion of men aboard her and used the colonists as a cover for a heavy transport mission to Omega.

"The rebels found out about his plan. My mission is to make sure that those weapons don't reach Banshire's goons."

"It's a pretty story!" calls the man in the rear again. "But I say we turn her over to the marines. How do we know she's telling the truth?"

"Do you really think forty marines came here to rescue five thousand colonists in twenty lousy air-cars and two hovertanks?" Tita yells. "They're here to get the weapons and they couldn't care less about you."

"It's none of our concern!" says the woman in front.

"You're wrong!" responds Taylor. "I came here to start a new life, not to continue the old one under Banshire's boot. There aren't supposed to be any marines here on Omega, and I say we get rid of them!"

A mutter of agreement runs through the crowd. Gasper holds his arms up, signaling the crowd to be quiet. "I think Tita's telling the truth," he says. "And that means that, at best, these marines will leave us here to starve. The question is, what are we going to do about it?"

"Rush 'em!" calls the man in the rear again. "Kill the bloodsuckers!"

"That's very noble," calls Taylor. "But they have hovertanks and heavy machine guns. We'd better rely on stealth and skill, and take out those hovertanks before we try anything else."

"There's only forty of them!" objects the woman. "Why wait for them to make the first move? What guarantee do we have that they won't open fire before we can do anything?"

"We have no guarantee at all," yells Tita, "except the fact that the ship is still missing. They probably won't execute us until they find the ship."

Study the situation map.

Click here to see the hidden message (It might contain spoilers)

• Gasper gives the order to rush the marines.
• Gasper gathers a smaller strike force to attack the hovertanks using stealth and surprise.

_________________"Now that we've determined that up to π angels can dance on the head of a pin, how do we determine the specific number (or fraction) of angels dancing?"
"What if angels from another pin engage them in melee combat?"

The Den is about the equivalent of an S&M fetish. The Den's favorite way of jerking it is to have hurr durr arguments that run on for dozens of pages. Some of it raise interesting points, but most of it is just slinging cum on the walls. Like strangulation to get an erection, being a huge [EDITED] gets you off even stronger. Occasionally Frank struts out in intimidating 12" stiletto thigh highs, a thick, fearsome whip (which is a situational weapon choice, by the way) taut in his firm grip, and you put on your gimp suits, anticipating the lashing of his sharp tongue with a perverse quiver.

FrankTrollman wrote:

Victorian Racism is like level 2 evolved racism. You have to get your racism up to a certain level and then trade it while holding a dark stone to get your racism to turn into Victorian Racism.

"We'd better rely on stealth," Gasper says. "Get me nine more volunteers. We'll try to sneak down the ravine tonight, then circle around and capture the hovertanks."

An hour later, Taylor reports back with eight other volunteers. "Do any of you know how to operate a hovertank?" Tita asks. The men all shake their heads. "I do," she says. "I guess that makes me volunteer number ten."

"Okay," Gasper says reluctantly. "But stay out of combat, if there is any. You're much too valuable to lose."

"I can fight as well as any of you!" Tita protests.

"I don't think that's the point," says Taylor. "Even the best soldier gets killed. If you get killed, who will operate the hovertank?"

Tita reluctantly agrees. They spend the rest of the day memorizing hand signals and trying to rest. When evening falls, the marines start to scan the no-man's-land between the camp and the air-cars with searchlights. Gasper and the others study the pattern of the light covering the ravine area for over an hour. Then they smear their faces and hands with mud and crawl toward the ravine on their bellies, ignoring the bonechilling cold creeping into their bodies.

When they reach the edge of the searchlights' pattern, they stop. Gasper waits for the light to pass over, then crawls as quickly as he can to the ravine. He makes it with a second to spare. The others follow his example, one at a time. Three minutes later, they are all lying safely in the bottom of the ravine.

Gasper leads the way down the ravine, resisting the urge to run. A few minutes later, he hears two men talking.

"I swear something moved down there!" one says.

"You're seeing things, Barnes," says the other. "The colonists are camped back over there."

Gasper risks moving a little further ahead. He sees two marines standing on the edge of the ravine, looking down into the shadows ahead. Whatever they're talking about, it's not them. He breathes a sigh of relief.

"I guess you're right, Jonesy," Barnes says. "This planet gives me the creeps, that's all. Besides, it's too dark down there to see anything, and I'm sure as heck not going to climb down just to get a better view."

The two men turn back to face the colonists' camp, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands to ward off the cold. Gasper gives the signal to move ahead silently.

Quote:

Gasper is now in command of a group of eleven volunteers, including himself. Because Tita has been ordered to avoid combat, she does not count in their Manpower value. Use the statistics below for Gasper's volunteers.

Manpower. 10, Ordnance: **, Stealth: 9, Morale: 9, Melee: 3

**Gasper's volunteers are armed with whatever weapons Gasper has been able to collect so far. For example, if Gasper successfully captured pistols from the security office aboard the Saretta before it disappeared, they are armed with pistols. The Ordnance values for weapons Gasper could have collected are: nothing = 0; pistols=5; assault rifle or submachine gun = 7.

Make a Stealth check for Gasper and his volunteers. Roll two six-sided dice.

• The total rolled is the same or less than the volunteers' value for Stealth. √
• If the total rolled is greater.

I honestly have no idea which Ordnance value we're supposed to be using. We didn't capture any weapons, but our group had an Ordnance value of 4 before, which seemed to be from 'survival gear' (bows & arrows? Typo?). I guess we'll see if it comes up.

Quote:

Gasper and his volunteers sneak past the guards. Ten yards down the ravine, someone asks, "Are you safe now?" The voice is clear and loud, not even a whisper.

Gasper turns back to his volunteers. "Ssssshhhhh!" he urges. They stare at him uncomprehendingly.

Gasper whirls back around. Something resembling a floating intestine hangs in the air directly ahead. Its dull-glistening skin shines eerily in the starlight. Gasper backs away in fear and almost shrieks.

"Don't worry," the thing says. "I (we) am (are) not dangerous. And if you go back, the marine-units will catch you."

Gasper freezes. He feels the others stop directly behind him and hears one or two gasp in fear.

"Who . . . what?" he stumbles.

"Please, do not speak out loud," the intestine says. "The marine-units will hear. I (we) sense that they mean to do serious harm to you. Your thoughts are sufficient."

"Telepathy?" Gasper asks aloud.

"Yes!" the alien says. "Just think. Try it."

Gasper thinks his next question. "What are you?"

"I (we) am (are) the Mancji, the original inhabitants of this planet. I (we) am (are) what you call aliens."

Gasper remembers the sentries. "Maybe we can carry on this, uh, conversation further down the ravine. Out of harm's way, as it were."

The Mancji floats down the ravine a quarter-mile. "Is this sufficient?" it inquires. "I (we) do not know the sensitivity of your monitoring apparatus."

"Much better," Gasper responds.

"I (we) know you have many questions, Gasper-unit," the Mancji says. "But I (we) have made a terrible mistake as I (we) always do when trying to help in your affairs. If this mistake is not quickly rectified, I (we) sense that your marine-units will exterminate your colonist-units."

"What is this mistake?" Gasper inquires.

"Sensing that the Saretta-being was causing distress between your colonist-units and your crew-units, I (we) moved it."

"Moved it?" Gasper thinks. "How?"

"Like this." The Mancji responds by floating upward.

"You telekinesed it?" he asks.

"More like teleported," the Mancji responds, "if I (we) understand the concept correctly. The spatial rearrangement was instantaneous. It is now buried deep within Omega. Should I (we) bring it back? Would that correct the mistake?"

"That might help," Gasper answers, "but the cause of the distress is rooted in conflicting interests between the . . . uh . . . marine-units and the colonist-units."

"This distress is not unusual?" the Mancji asks. It twists slightly in the air, as if gesturing with its ropelike body.

"Unfortunately, no," Gasper responds. "It is caused by some units trying to dominate other units."

"This is not healthy?" the Mancji inquires.

"Not for the majority of the units," Gasper responds. "Sometimes we must rebel against these dominator-units."

"Rebel?"

"Fight. Destroy."

"Ahh, yes," the Mancji returns. "Like fighting diseased cells."

"Sort of," Gasper confirms. "Will you help us?"

"Perhaps," the Mancji responds.

• Gasper asks the Mancji to return the ship, then attacks the hovertanks while the marines are distracted.
• Gasper asks the Mancji to teleport the hovertanks into his control.

_________________"Now that we've determined that up to π angels can dance on the head of a pin, how do we determine the specific number (or fraction) of angels dancing?"
"What if angels from another pin engage them in melee combat?"

Tita loads and fires the first shell. Gasper sees it strike home through Tita's view port. A ball of flame envelops the enemy hovertank.

"We did it!" he screams. "Let's turn this thing on the air-cars—that ought to scatter the marines."

"Not so fast," Tita says. "Look." Gasper looks out the port. The enemy tank is still in one piece – and swinging its turret in their direction. "Load!" Tita calls.

The enemy gun belches smoke and flame. Half a second later, an explosion rocks Gasper's tank. Smoke seeps into the hovertank through the viewing ports and vents. The air temperature rises five degrees. Gasper pulls the automatic loader handle. The gun ejects its spent casing and slides another shell into the breech. Tita activates the targeting computer and the turret swivels two inches.

The hovertank recoils as the mighty gun fires the shell. Gasper does not wait to see if the shell has struck home — he pulls the automatic loader lever immediately. The spent casing clangs to the floor. Gasper risks a glance out the window. The other tank is engulfed in flames, but its gun barrel is still trained on Gasper's hovertank. It belches flame once more.

This time, the explosion is deafening. Gasper's ears ring painfully. Tita activates the targeting computer and the turret swivels back and forth as the hovertank rocks. Gasper sees Tita yelling, but he cannot hear her words. Finally, the hovertank stops rocking and the computer locks on target. The hovertank fires and recoils, and Gasper pulls the automatic
loading lever. He does not even look to see what happened to the other tank.

A second later, the expected return shot has not come. His hovertank fires and Gasper loads another shell. They fire four shots like this before Tita gives the thumbs-up signal. Gasper looks out the view port. A thick column of smoke and flame obscures the enemy tank.

Tita swings the turret in the direction of an air-car and activates the targeting computer. The hovertank recoils and the air-car explodes. By the time they destroy two more air-cars, the marines are running. Tita lobs a few shells after them, then signals for Gasper to stop loading. When they climb from the hovertank, even Gasper, with his ringing ears, hears the crowd cheering.

The next morning, the colonists send a well-equipped expedition to find North Continent. Gasper and Tita stay behind to organize the temporary camp. A few hard weeks later, a fellow named Nat Grail shows up with supplies for the new colonists, and an orderly evacuation schedule is established. Gasper and Tita live more or less happily, but certainly freely and in liberty, on their new world.

As for Captain Weingar and His Lordship's weapons—they never see the light of day.

THE END

... and the alien was never spoken of again by anyone. That is quite the BLAM, there._________________"Now that we've determined that up to π angels can dance on the head of a pin, how do we determine the specific number (or fraction) of angels dancing?"
"What if angels from another pin engage them in melee combat?"

So, I dropped this series due to a personal crisis at the time, and have been getting my fix through the Blood Sword stuff, but I never forgot my intentions with this series (or its sister series).

The only significant path we didn't explore with this book was going hardcore loyalist and being in command of the ship, thus being on the other end of the rebel attempted takeover. But most of the tension and tricky decisions of that path are pretty thoroughly derailed when you know that the hold is full of armed insurrectionists, so it's a small loss.

But before I get back to this, I want to take a detour into a different flavor of choose-your-own-fanfic, coming up in its own thread._________________"Now that we've determined that up to π angels can dance on the head of a pin, how do we determine the specific number (or fraction) of angels dancing?"
"What if angels from another pin engage them in melee combat?"